


A Different Kind Of Vengeance

by Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (though this story is not shippy), Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Id Fic, Look I didn't want to ship it but the ship writers brought their A-game, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Relationship, Suicide Attempt, sometimes you need somebody to notice that you need help and to just.. offer it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-11-01 22:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: Oberyn meets Sansa Stark at the edge of a very deep drop





	A Different Kind Of Vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I did not plan to write this, I will not write more of it, it kinda just.. happened

It was a part of the gardens that could not be seen from the keep, shielded by tall trees. That was why he had sought it out, eager to be away from the treacherous hellhole that was the Red Keep and its viciously cruel boy king.

Except that he was not the first one who had entertained that thought. 

Her long red hair cascaded down her back, some loose strands fluttering in the wind. She was slim and straight-backed and looking North, sitting there on the hip-height precipe of the wall, her feet dangling over the edge. Her face was turned out to sea and he could not see her expression, but he could all but feel the sadness emanating from her. She needed no introduction. Lady Sansa Lannister Stark, last of her family, a hostage to the Lannisters, wed to the Imp.

This part of the wall had the deepest drop behind it, a hundred-and-a-half feet to the water below. If the tide were in, one had a chance, a slim one, to possibly survive a fall. But the tide was out, revealing the sharp rocks at the base of the wall.

He did not think the timing was a coincidence. Her hands were clutched to the inner edge of the wall as if she were gathering courage to lean forward, to let go, to let herself fall.

His heart ached as he pictured Elia in this place, sitting there in the same contemplation, wondering if Rheagar would return to her or if he'd permanently put her aside in favour of Lyanna Stark. She must have had a similar air of despair as this young woman.

Against his better judgement - he was here for a  _ purpose _ , he did not need to get involved with the Lannisters in any way,  _ curse  _ them - he approached from the side, not wishing the startle her into letting go.

"My Lady," he said, gently as if to a small child, a spooked animal. "My Lady, won't you come away from the edge?"

She drew in a sharp, startled breath, and Oberyn's hand twitched in readiness to grab the cloth of her skirts, should she threaten to jump or fall.

"My Lor—My Prince," she corrected herself as she recognised him, turning toward him and slipping off the wall, back onto the stone ground of the keep. She curtsied with the well-practised manners of a lady born and raised to it, her face set to pleasant, if bland, politeness. The transition was smooth, as if he'd caught her daydreaming girlish fantasies rather than contemplating a plunge onto the rocks

He was surprised that she was alone, unaccompanied by a handmaiden. He held back from pointing it out, suspecting she had slipped away from her chaperone to give herself this moment on the wall, the opportunity that he had ruined with his presence.

She looked cold, this Lady of the North, as if the warmth of the sun couldn't reach her. He felt the powerful and not wholly welcome impulse to try to—he wasn't sure. To do something for her to relieve her despair. Ellaria would smile about his warm heart, but she always listed it first in her summation of his desirable attributes. He knew she would not act differently had she met the Lady Sansa like this. 

"Will you come sit with me for a while? I should like to know you better," he said gently, offering his arm. "I might not have the opportunity later."

She didn't have much colour on her cheeks to begin with, but she paled even further at his tacit acknowledgement that he knew what she'd been about to do when he came upon her. He did not relish doing so, but he feared that the moment he turned his back, she would be back on the wall and ready to jump. If he wished to help her somehow, this was his one chance. 

After what felt like a long time, in which, for all her face betrayed, she either tried to comprehend his invitation or carefully considered every possible angle of what she knew about him, she finally put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were cold through the fine linen of his shirt. 

He lead her to a shaded bench that was within view of some of the guards by the pavillion, not wishing to cause rumours that would harm her, but well out of earshot of anybody who might wish to listen. She glanced at those same sight lines, and he thought she weighed the danger of being seen to talk to him against the danger of being known to have been out of sight with a man such as him. She seemed to come to the same conclusion he had; if she was going to be in the company of a notorious seducer, better to have witnesses that nothing untoward had happened. 

He'd heard the boy King and the Queen Regent speak disparaging of the Stark traitor married to the Imp, of why he had set her aside; her supposed low intelligence and poor character. But so far all he saw was somebody who had learned to keep herself shielded by a wall of bland, polite acceptance. Others might forget that she was a prisoner, a bird kept in a gilded cage, but she had not. 

"For all that they call me a viper, I'd rather live in an actual nest of vipers than this place," he said, breaking the silence. 

Her intake of breath was a little sharper, as if he'd startled her with that frank admission. It was impolitic to say, but his dislike for the Red Keep was hardly a secret - he and his retinue always stayed in the Dornish townhouse in one of the nicer neighbourhoods in King's Landing. 

"Come, will you not speak to me of what brought you here?" he implored. "I would ease some of your despair, if I could. You must be aware of my feelings for your good-family; you need not fear that anything you say will get back to them."

Her eyes, which had been lowered with what seemed to him was learned submissiveness, not shyness, met his. They were very blue, and for a moment he got lost in the depths of the sorrow he saw there. She was young, perhaps seven and ten, eight and ten? A woman grown by most standards, but far too young to have been robbed of the will to live. 

She took a deep breath, held it for longer than what could be comfortable, and then the story came out. The loss of her family, most of them murdered by the Lannisters, her treatment by the King and Queen Regent, the acute knowledge that her only value was being the heir to Winterfell. To his surprise, her marriage to Tyrion Lannister had actually improved her situation. He'd have expected it to be the prime source of her distress, but being wedded to the Imp had apparently given her a degree of protection from the capriciousness of the King, and even seemed to have given her something of an ally.

At least, the public beatings had stopped, she said under her breath. He had to look away to hide the wash of murderous rage that wanted to send him straight to the Throne room. 

"What sort of husband does Tyrion make?" he asked, forcing himself not to dwell. The Imp did not have a reputation to suggest that he would take pleasure in causing his wife pain; like Oberyn himself, he took his custom to the kind of pleasure houses where one could be reasonably assured that the ladies worked there willingly. But a lack of reputation meant little for Sansa's actual treatment. 

"He has been kind."

Kind enough to not insist on bedding an unwilling girl, at least. It was a low standard, Oberyn thought privately, but he could see how to Lady Sansa, whose sole value was considered to be her ability to produce a child with the Stark bloodline, it meant everything that he did not insist.  _ So starved of kindness that a refusal to rape her makes him the best man she's met in King's Landing _ , he thought bitterly. 

The problem, he finally drew out of her, was that Tywin Lannister had given her to Tyrion to get a Lannister-Stark heir he could use to claim Winterfell for the South. And as the months passed with no pregnancy in sight, the pressure increased and the King had begun to threaten to get a child on her himself. 

Oberyn had already decided Joffrey would die. He mentally shortened the timeline of his plans. 

He wondered if she'd considered allowing the Imp his marriage rights simply to avoid that fate, but her position when he'd found her today answered that question. She declared unprompted, low and vehement, that if she could not escape them, she'd rather die and take the unborn babe with her than give them a child. There was more of the wolf in her than he'd initially thought. 

He had the start of an idea of how to get her out of King's Landing, but it was too early to tell her, with too many moving parts he'd need to arrange first. And it would require him to give up his chance to avenge Elia, when it was finally within reach after all this time. 

"My sister was murdered here," he told Lady Sansa in a low voice. "I came her to demand that somebody answer for it."

She nodded.

"Now I think...I think that Elia would like it better if I helped you, where I could not help her."

"How can you possibly help me?" the glimmer of hope in her eyes faded away as she thought about it. "I have nowhere to go, Winterfell is lost, and even if—they'll never let me go. They'll get a child on me one way or another—" she shuddered at the thought— and if they get any inkling of my intended course of action to that, they'll lock me up until after the birth."

And then, her primary purpose in the Lannister's eyes fulfilled, she could either languish in the hope of seeing something of her child, though she wouldn't be allowed to be a mother. She would likely be forced to carry a spare heir. Or she could give up all ties to her child and leave, to little better prospect elsewhere. In Dorne a woman in such a position would have the chance to make a life for herself. He did not think she would fare that well in any of the other kingdoms, and she clearly knew it. Accepting having a Lannister child meant giving up on any hope of escape. It meant a lifetime of Lannisters.

"I cannot promise you yet how. Only that I will do my utmost best to make sure those things do not come to pass." He wanted to take her hand, to kneel perhaps, to underline the strength of his intent, but such a gesture being seen would likely cause problems for her. Simply sitting on a bench with him might already endanger her from the vicious court gossips. 

Lady Sansa nodded in acknowledgement of his solemn vow. He sensed that it was more out of politeness than that she truly believed that he could do anything for her, but he supposed that was only fair. She didn't know him, or what he was capable of, or the lengths he was willing to go to once his mind was made up. 

She would find out, if only she was able to hold on long enough to show her.

He hoped his vow was at least enough to stop her from climbing right back onto the wall. He wanted to give her something, a spark of hope, something to hold on to while he put things into motion. 

"Have you ever tried any Dornish delicacies? I don't suppose they are much served here in King's Landing."

"Only a few, my Lord Prince, they are not often served here," she said politely, willing to be drawn into the subject and listen to his descriptions of the fine food prepared by his cooks. She even, on his request, described some of her own favourite foods, though he could tell she had to dig deep. As low as her mood must have been for some time now, he wasn't surprised she had little appetite. He mostly wanted her to speak of normal things to draw her mind away from the thought that today was the last day of her life. 

"If I invite you and your husband to dine with us tomorrow night, will he come? We keep an excellent table, and we'll be able to discuss matters more freely."

She blinked at him, as if she hadn't expected anything beyond this conversation.

"I—yes, I suppose?" she finally said. "I can encourage him."

He would be able to gauge if Tyrion Lannister was actually willing to help his wife get out of her miserable position, even if it meant letting her go and getting the marriage annulled, or if his kindness went no further than the bare minimum. 

Oberyn would help her either way, but it would make the difference between giving his brother, Prince Doran, a mild headache - or a major diplomatic crisis. 

"Good, please do so," he said, noting the rather flustered handmaiden entering the gardens in the distance. He turned to Lady Sansa and took her hand, warming her thin, pale fingers between both his much broader palms for a moment. "Take heart, My Lady. I do not make promises idly."

She swallowed, and for the space of a few heartbeats he could see all of her pain and despair rise to the surface and threaten to spill out of her eyes. Was it the glimmer of hope he'd given her that made it almost overwhelm her? He wanted to reach out and embrace her, guide her head against his shoulder, let her hide until she was ready to put on her public face again. He thought she might accept, in this moment, but he knew he couldn't offer. These tender feelings had no place.

Maybe they would, one day. The simplest, safest solution to her problem was for her to have her marriage annulled and then immediately turn around and marry him. Subterfuge would be minimal—as soon as she was a Princess of Dorne he could justify putting the full might of the army behind her protection, making her effectively untouchable. There was no way the Lannisters would risk outright war to get her back. Especially once they believed she was no longer a maiden, and nobody would think that  _ he  _ would let a marriage go unconsummated. 

He didn't want to mention the option for fear that she would believe he was helping her so that he could have her for himself. He knew how it looked, a man his age. Worse, she might be desperate enough to agree to it. He could not object to the prospect of having a wife such as she, sharp and smart and lovely, and thought he might be able to make her happy, or at least content. But he meant to free her, not present her with a different trap. She'd been surrounded by predators for so long, he did not want to inadvertently act as they might have, even with his good intentions. 

If they came to dinner, perhaps Ellaria could subtly find out the Lady's feelings about the option of wedding Oberyn and answer any questions she might have about him. He needed to know if she was willing to discuss it or if the idea distressed her and should be summarily dismissed. He would understand if she had no wish to put herself at the mercy of yet another man, and it wasn't the only solution, merely the simplest. . 

The handmaiden had seen them and was approaching at a fast walk. Unaware of the direction of his thoughts, Lady Sansa nodded sharply, straightened up like a soldier about to go into battle, and breathed all her emotions back down behind her mask of polite nothingness. Like a porcelain doll. 

He felt a surge of admiration for her bravery and spirit. She'd been under siege here, for years, alone, and nobody would even acknowledge it.

He released her hand, caressing her knuckles with his thumb for the briefest of moments, and rose to his feet as the handmaiden drew near. He bowed to the Lady Sansa, very formal.

"My thanks for the company, Lady Sansa. I can only hope that it has improved your mood as much as it did mine. Until we meet again."

She gave him the polite, empty goodbyes social conventions demanded of her, but he thought—he hoped—that there might be a spark of liveliness in her eyes that had not been there earlier. 

Walking away, he realised his mood really had lifted. He'd been telling himself and his brother he'd avenge Elia to give her soul peace at last, that killing the Mountain and Tywin Lannister would satisfy her. But he'd been lying to himself; it would not give Elia peace at all if he put himself into the danger of a to-the-death duel for her sake. 

No, he'd help the Stark girl for Elia's sake; his sister would have enjoyed both the compassion of the action and the fact that it would give Tywin Lannister the heartburn. It was the kind of move she would have delighted in. 

And for himself, he would dole out some careful, slow poisons in strategic places before he left King's Landing. Something that would slowly sap the Mountain of his strength until he would barely be able to lift his sword anymore. Something that would make Tywin Lannister forgetful and unable to concentrate, struggling to fulfil his most basic duties as the Hand. Gradual, so gradual that the starting point could not be determined and that by the time it was ever found out, if ever, the effects would be irreversible. Though if Oberyn was lucky as well as good, a Maester might simply conclude it was age bringing down the proud lion, and only Tywin himself would suspect, in his lucid moments, that that wasn't quite right. 

Yes, that would satisfy.   


  
  
  
  



End file.
